Breaking the Labyrinth
by blackribbon31
Summary: Based off the original novel, musical, and a little bit of the 1943 film. In the dark, a man wakes to find himself terribly injured and alone. With no memory, he's left buried alive in some underground vault. The only link to his identity are slivers of memories that bleed through: a woman. He has nothing left but wander this labyrinth, unmask his memories and break through.
1. Chapter 1

A man wakes in the dark and heart pounding. He moves around in the mud, falling repeatedly and calling for help. A soft sound, someone is barely moving around, he thinks. Body is aching and skin feels tight all over. His hands shake. He reaches water eventually, shallow at first but quickly falls into deep water. Lungs fill, his hands claw into the mud at one side, sliding off but he climbs over the trench. Gagging and spitting up, lungs empty and he strains to find light. Fear, above all else, drenched him and his cries of pain, struggling to get a hold of his breath.

Skin is breaking, fresh blood seeps out all over and he doesn't know why. His hands, parts of his chest are swollen and covered with welts. One side of his face feels as if it's almost crumbling. Rats squeak and his eyes start to tell between dark and pure black. This black is textured, sharp-pointed and cold, a wall. He knows he is underground and lost hope of a kidnapping. If they had, at least they would have returned. He would not be alone and could be told where he is and why.

A cold wall is all he has, and after too much confusion, he decides to walk the opposite direction. He hears the water as he goes further and begins to feel it on his toes. He stops and flaps his foot ahead of him, the mud holding him feels a bit more firm and the wall begins to arc on top. The mud stops and cold bricks, up a foot, lead to a lighter darkness. He sees a faint light hitting the arcs of pathways, all still underground. He is moving upward, gradually. The brick pathway is wide, small risk of falling into the water but this time there would be no mud against the sides to grab onto; the rats pass by every now and then. He reaches the end of this pathway, a tunnel, and sees five more at this point.

The gleam of light hits the arcs from an opening seventy feet up. It is night. His breaths shorten, inhales crippling the lungs, and the echo sounds as if a dozen men were hiding in the room. He stops and waits, his breathing could not be held and his throat lets out squeaks.

He looks to his hands which were pink and blue; layers into premature skin, on his body and assumingly, his face. He sits on a cold ledge, only a few feet from the water. His body is as far back as possible, staring at the water, looking for an explanation. Or a memory. Alone, injured, probably at the point of death, and deep into some sort of cave with what looks like a small lake flows through it. Desperate for a reason rather than treatment or food; he isn't even sure if he has passed out since he began walking. He hums out of fear, which seems quite natural to him, his voice getting louder and he stops thinking. It calms his nerves a bit. Eventually the sound stops but it is still night.

He walks to the closest tunnel, peeks his head through, dark. There is maybe thirty feet between the ledges to the next tunnel, across from him, he swims. The humming comes back and he flaps his feet rapidly, his arms moving ahead and his hum becomes yells out of panic. The wet brick is difficult to get to climb, he waits a moment. His pulls his leg over it and climbs. This tunnel is dark, not black. He tries to yell and grunts instead. He grunts louder and there is an echo. Unsure if he is still going up, he finds a deep nook along the way and gives in to exhaustion. After a bit, light peeks through from one corner, the side where the ceiling curves downward and meets the wall. Crawling toward the light, he finds a hole in the wall showing the exterior. Only water he could see, perhaps an ocean. A tiny little hole, his only glimpse to the outside but he can hear the water slapping against the mountainside.

He still can't speak; grunts confuse his thoughts so he tries to remain silent. He begins to wheeze after some time and continues through a new tunnel. Legs shake with every other step and the daylight must be passing through the tunnels. At the brightest, he could see little doors in the middle of the tunnel walls. He finds an unlocked one. It was just a little room with tools and a couch. He collapses on the floor; the door is left opened. On his back, and his sight begins to darken, the last thing he sees are little wooden squares in the ceiling.

His eyes peel; breathing is stable now and his head supported by blankets. A figure is moving around in the dark. No spark of fear, just thankful someone has finally come to his rescue. He grunts as he tries to ask for help and the figure hesitates a moment.

"You've managed to move quite a lot." It was the voice of a man.

_Where am I?_ He wanted to ask but only made wheezing sounds. The injured man moaned out of sheer frustration, wishing he could scream. Bandages all over his hands and feet tightly wound, he could not lift the blanket covering his body. His face had been left alone, it seemed. Leaning over him, the man stared, faces close together, as if waiting for something to happen. He moved back and said,

"I found you, you know. I've been taking care of you." This man slightly past middle aged, gray hair had bright, desperate eyes, moving about quickly after long, unblinking stares. His eyebrows expressive, he kept lifting them and nodding his face as he spoke. He is eager for something. The bandaged man did not think very much, he was beginning to numb back to sleep out of pain. He wants to know why they are still in that little room; within the dark, deep cave and not amongst people in a hospice.


	2. Chapter 2

Except for the caretaker's change of clothing, it was difficult to tell time. Several times now, the injured man could swear it had been a few minutes here and there of eyes closing, and his caretaker would have a change of clothes; and he went back and forth between shaved face and slightest beard. After some time, the changes in his caretaker took longer to occur; he was passing out less often. When he leaves, the caretaker walks through the tunnels, then there's paddling in the water, he has a boat. Other times, he'd grab a chair and pop open one of the squares in the ceiling and peek in. Once the caretaker believes the injured man was sleeping, he climbs into the trap doors and rambles about above. Then silence after a minute and he is gone for hours.

Filthy, worn down bandages unravel here and there, and some pieces were flaking off. He pulls back a ruffled piece, skin still pink but not as soft and it burns less when he rubs it. His hands are healing, he remembers his feet weren't too bad but his face is not getting treated. It has a rough texture, one eye sunken in a bit and twitches every once in a while for a few minutes at a time. His cheek bone poking out almost, and his lips seemed smeared. A small part felt stretched out a bit, as if his face melted and could slide right down. The other side is badly injured as well. He feels cuts and bruises, swollen eye, swollen cheek bone but those injuries are temporary, he guesses. He tries to speak, then yell, something's wrong with his jaw. He pulls down his shirt, some of his body has bandages but a lot of injuries are still exposed. He is getting better though.

After walking endlessly in the tunnels and his desperate swim to reach this tunnel, his stiff body did not care to help him. Questions and confusion remain unanswered as he is left alone again but no longer in the dark. A single candle on the cold brick floor and he is determined to reach it. He stares at the flame, finally a light. Soft and fragile, slightly wavering, threatening to go out and he would be left in darkness once more. Cautiously, the disfigured man found it was easier to roll onto the floor and crawl towards it. The cold, wet brick is familiar and he thinks it strange. This is the best he could come up with for a memory. As he crawls, he thinks of his time blindly walking with only his kind wall as a guide. He remembers nothing of his life before his initial awakening in the cave. He picks up his candle, and sits against the wall. A tear of melting wax slides over the side of the candle and he feels as if his own tears should be falling. Nerves are off, one side of his face is twitching and he just wants to relax for one moment. He wishes for tears finally, he isn't sure if he could cry. Clutching his candle, begging for some memory, any memory, from his actual life. _Surely, I was not born in this place. _

The ceiling rumbles, the caretaker returns to find him out of bed,

"Gone longer than usual. I was scared you left, you are not strong enough to walk about-leave. Not yet."

The disfigured man brings the candle closer to his face, the caretaker stared.

"I don't know what to tell you. I am doing the best I can." He takes the candle from him and puts it on a table across the room, hidden in an almost nook.

"Try to keep the candle on the floor or that table, so if it tips over it doesn't reach anything else. You'll be able to put it out in that case. Never put it on the table near your bed, I am not always here and you still sleep for long stretches of time."

The disfigured man cannot speak but his hands are out, showing his injuries, asking what happened. The caretaker shakes his head,

"It's horrible I know. Do you want fresh bandages? I don't have too many, if you get them changed now, you can't get them changed again for a long while." He rejects the offer. He won't get answers any time soon. He points to his face and the caretaker shakes his head again,

"I don't know what to do with your face. I'm not a doctor. The bandages fell off, and anytime I tried to put it back on, your face would twitch or you'd jerk your head. I left them off." The caretaker turns away and the disfigured man realizes he brought food with him. Scraps of food, like you'd give a dog but mashed down.

"At times your face would change expressions out of nowhere, you smiled wider and wider, or one side of your face would twitch and other remain still. You would push your head up like you were trying to pop it out. You did scare me at times."

The caretaker puts the food down and brings over the chair. The disfigured man cautiously picks up the food and stares. He must have eaten since being there but doesn't remember.

"I forgot to bring a spoon this time, just eat like that."

The disfigured man dips two fingers in and opens his mouth. Forcing his fingers in because they almost didn't fit, his tongue takes a few seconds to finally move and he swallows the mashed carrots and potatoes.

"Come on, tilt your head back. Like you do. You ate better before." The throat aches but the injured man welcomes the food, even if a bit hesitant. He eats, grabbing bigger spoonfuls of food with his fingers and forcing his mouth to widen. His hands shake; throat gagging a bit, the food smearing all over his mouth and the some that does get in, slips back out. His throat makes a gurgling sound and the caretaker's face hardens in disgust. The caretaker leaves the room and as he finishes his bowl, he coughs roughly as the last bit of food goes down. The bowl falls on the floor and his hands, face and chest, are smeared with food. The caretaker returns, picks up the bowl and hands him a towel,

"I'll get you some water," he rinses the bowl out just outside in the water. _At least it looked cleaned_, the injured man thought. He cleans himself up; the caretaker picks up fallen food and throws it into the water just out the door.

"I can't take you to a hospital. You're absolutely horrid." His caregiver says blankly.

"It's good that you're here. I'm glad you're alive." The caretaker leaves.

He takes the bandages off his feet, the floor is smooth and ice cold. His senses are getting stronger and he unravels his hand from its bandage. He takes his shirt off and lets his aching, charred body lie on the cold floor. He hums again, although he isn't trying to do it. His heartbeats quicken, he forgot something. He has forgotten everything but there was something trying to scratch the surface. A heavy sorrow fills his chest like it's sinking. He sweats, a new burning began in his head and spread throughout the body. It was close, he could feel it approaching, what he had forgotten. He waits, he tries to relax and let it come in waves. _Loved ones?_ His obvious near-death experience left him feeling shriveled. His thoughts play with him, taunt him, not letting him know something he was desperate to attain. He is sinking on that cold brick floor. . .he will receive no sympathy.

Finally, he could not sleep. He can slip back in a darkness that used to keep him out for days, now several hours here and there. Hours staring at those trap doors; fainting spells behind him now, his caretaker would not return as often. He sits up on the floor, cleans himself with dirty water. He cleans his shirt in the lake and wonders where the boat lies. _How far down these tunnels could the caretaker leave the boat, and where was the outside?_

So he walks toward the darkness, his legs stronger now, though he leans against the wall as a guide but barely. Having made peace with the dark, he no longer feared it. Straight ahead, rats screech now and then, their nails scratching the ledge, and some float dead in the water. He could see much better in the dark now, and notices more doors sealed shut in the walls. There are more wooden squares on the ceilings and small pieces of rope hanging from some them. Yards later, the tunnel gets smaller, the pathway narrows, and ceiling hangs low. He passes several other nooks, other passageways by foot. This cave, this dark labyrinth hides many things. The disfigured man wants to know more, not just about himself but this place.

It's been a while, only rats pass him and there has been no sign, no desperate plea from the caretaker to return. _Perhaps I am unwanted_, he thinks. But why would some random, middle-aged man keep him here? He is not a doctor, and must have a family of his own to look after. The mere idea of his being kept there does not make sense. Either he is extremely unwell or is his captor? He stops and sits, his bare feet dip in the water, another rat slides by his feet and the disfigured man acts as if it was a leaf. _That man cannot be trusted_, he decided. Should he return to his caretaker? Or continue down this dark tunnel, finding somewhere else to go. . . .

His heart slowly beats faster, his shoulder slouches down a bit and his head heavy. The thought, the memory is bleeding through: a woman, her voice soft, her hair long and wavy, graceful eyebrows framing her almond eyes. A pointy chin and high cheekbones make her face look a little long, and olive skin. Or is it the candlelight? There is a small candle right between them at a table, her face close to the it and her skin is golden and bright. Her face perfectly contrasting with the dark background, he cannot make sense of anything behind her. He is there with her, nearing the candle and he burns his hand as tries to reach hers on the table.

He looks to his left hand now, pink skin all over but there is a rough patch on his thumb that spills over a small part of his palm. This scar, this burn is much older and was not a result of the accident. Or incident. He remembers her soft hand, holding his. She brings some water and some cloth. The tips of her fingers lightly touching the burn, he winces, and she moistens the rag and pours drops of water to his burn. He shakes, he could not take pain well. Alone in the dark, he laughs at how badly he thought that pain was. _That wasn't pain at all_.

_More_, he begs. _Return to me_, he wishes as he sits in that tunnel, wondering where his love had gone. She must be looking for him, grief-ridden and fragile, her health must be compromised. Or perhaps it useless, he wonders. Alone in the dark, with the squeaks of the rats coming and going, his body and face disfigured, he wonders if she too is injured. Some sort of fire or explosion must have occurred. People do not get injured by others and look the way he does. _She could be dead_, he surmised. _Is that it?_ Is that what he had forgotten? Is it that what is slowly killing him right now?

More rats, dead in the water, must be coming now. The pace of the water is quickening, and the sound of water is louder. He is slow to react and so he listens to the water and feels hands on his shoulders.

"What are you doing? You cannot wander just yet." His caretaker's voice hoarse, his face wrinkled with worry and desperately he begs him into the boat.

"Yes, yes, hurry. Hurry. We must speak." The disfigured man groans and points to walls, trying to ask about the other doors and the squares on the ceiling. The caretaker quickly glances around,

"Your eyes are getting better. Or worse really. They're getting used to the dark."

Another groan wishing to know more of where he is and his caretaker sighs,

"I'll explain more when we get back." He picks up the oars and starts rowing but the pathway is too narrow and begins to push their way back to the wider part of the tunnel.

"How could you have gone in this far? I never come here anymore." The water is green on top and black beneath when there is a greater depth, the disfigured man wonders how deep the water runs. The oar was long but it seemed to be hitting boulders far below in the water, and sometimes the caretaker pushed off the sides, back and forth repeatedly, just to move a bit forward. The caretaker wipes sweat off his forehead and takes the oars at the sides and rows.

"I didn't think you would wander around so much. You're horribly injured, have you always been so stubborn?"

A groan and some wheezing is all he got in return.

"I thought you were going to die when I found you. I kept you down here so you could die on your own." The caretaker continued to row, the water seemed to go even deeper; the disfigured man let his fingers run through the water since it had a relaxing effect on him.

"I don't know what to do with you now." The caretaker ended.

They return to the room and the injured man eagerly made his way to the bed. There is some old fruit and more carrots in a bowl for him.

"These are no good now, I'm going to have go back for more. It takes me quite a while to get down here. I'm not a young man anymore."

_How deep into the Earth am I?_ he wonders. _How deep in the dirt am I buried?_ He wheezes as he points to his throat and grunts.

"I don't know what to do. . .I wish you could speak."

That isn't good enough for him anymore, he grunts louder, his wheezing lasts longer as he breathes heavily. The caretaker moves back and watches his face, looking into his eyes, trying to figure something out.

"I am helping you! If you were out in the world, you'd be killed. Or heckled and the police would just throw you jail for causing a scene. People, women and children, they would be frightened by you. Don't you see. . .the gypsies would take you and throw you in a cage. Charge people to throw things at you and laugh. You would be imprisoned worse than you are now, I promise you." His voice deepens,

"You would be dead if you are out there! Any doctor would kill you just to put you out of your misery. You won't last long now anyway, you can't. You far too injured to stay alive, no doctors can save you." The voice of the caretaker desperate now, his eyes look around on the ceiling, and he grabs the chair.

"You don't see what I see. If you saw your face, you would know you can't return." He opens the door to return to the boat,

"No one else will help you. You left no one behind as far I could tell." The caretaker leaves and his patient remains still. _You left no one behind. . ._no tears.


	3. Chapter 3

"Off again?" His wife asks, her blond hair slips over her eyes from collapsing beehive bun. Her belly is big, bulbous, now in its seventh month and he tells her,

"Darling, sit back down. Don't move too much, I won't be long."

"You leaves are longer now." Her says quietly, he looks away,

"We need to get this place up and running. I have many pressures, and hundreds of people depending on me, we don't have much time. . ."

"Until the baby?"

"Oh, no. Yes, well of course, the baby too. I just mean. . .to get this place open. Many, many problems in opening this palace. If I don't deliver, I will be easily replaced."

"We have a few years to make a profit. To think we left Australia for this, you told me when we moved to France it would be a better home for us." Her voice lowers as if to say only to herself.

"Darling, don't be ridiculous. We're are in a palace, for heaven's sake!"

"We are in a two bedroom suite of a rundown palace, filled with hundreds of people as neighbors."

"We need to provide board for the workers. Soon, soon, there will be many more females around. By the end of next year, this place will open and we will be able to move to better suites. Once we get more investors, and the suites are built and renovated, you will have the palace suite as you'd like."

"Long time to wait, if you ask me." Her voice deepens, knowing a false promise when hears it. She watches her husband but he waits for her to leave,

"Darling, I will go now. Be back later. The workers leave you alone, don't they? No trouble?"

"You leave me alone, for hours every few days. I thought you said you didn't need to go through the tunnels below. There's nothing down there but rats."

"This palace is very old, and many people owned this place before we stepped in. I need to seal the doors underground. And-and I need to check every little nook, at least know what's down there."

"How big is it?"

"Darling, it's a labyrinth."

"What would anyone want that for?"

"I'm leaving now. Please stay off your feet. Do you need anything?"

"Just leave." She says lowly. On her bed and he opens the large mirror in the wall, which is a secret pathway to below.

"Darling. . .it's been a year and you still haven't told me." Her voice low but strong. He stares through the passageway, into the darkness, but is still in the room. He can't face her.

"You don't want to know. It's done, it's over, forget it. The baby's coming, focus on that."

"But what happened to your chest, you have burn marks and scars. It's on your legs a bit too."

The caretaker walked into the passageway,

"I'll be back before sundown."

She takes off her slippers and lies down. A young woman walks into her bedroom, with dark hair and brown eyes, holding a cup of tea.

"There you go. Where's Mister Douglas?" Her dark, long eyebrows scrunch together and contrast perfectly with her pale skin. But her mistress just shakes her head,

"He's gone below again; there are doors he needs to seal shut." Mrs. Douglas turns her tea away and her maid puts it on her nightstand.

"My grandmother worked in this same house decades ago but she only lasted a year. This place, it used to be so beautiful, she told me but that underground tunnels frightened her. She said sometimes drunkards made their way into one tunnels. Although some think it were ghosts. Those tunnels are dangerous."

"Yes, he's sealing everything shut so someday he doesn't have to worry about it."

"Brave man, your husband, going down there by himself. If he gets hurt we won't know for hours. But he's a good swimmer, yes?"

"My husband doesn't want any help. I don't know why." Mrs. Douglas is only half-listening. The young maid wonders when more women will join the place. She knows many others who could use the work, and the home. _I'll just wait for Mr. Douglas then_, she thought. She nods to her mistress and asks as she's about to tend to her chores,

"How long has it been since he's started sealing, if I may ask?"

"Ten months, only two after his accident." She quietly answers, never looking at her in the eyes.

"Poor Mr. Douglas, surviving the fire. Was he hurt badly? The other girl who tended him wouldn't speak of, I assume, out of respect for him. But may I ask?"

"He's fine. He was able to move around fairly quickly after. The doctor last tended to him only a few months ago."

"Yes, I remember. They were alone in this room for hours, and he kept bringing different nurses that never stayed long, Miss Caroline." Mrs. Douglas stops paying attention and Madeline takes the cue to leave. Alone once again, Mrs. Douglas stares at the mirror,

"A labyrinth, eh?"


	4. Chapter 4

The caretaker reached the boat, tired from the walks and the stairs, _how long can I keep doing this_, he asked himself. Mr. Douglas had enough money and could live anywhere he wants. He traveled quite a bit and fell in love with France. As a child, he obsessed with music, playing piano and violin. He composed volumes of music but never published. The frustration finally crushed his dreams and he went into business. With a partner, he opened a printing company fifteen years ago to publish music funnily enough. This was the only way he could make money off of something he loved. But it was never his, the music he would discover and happily publish, he'd take his cut and that was that. The composer would go on their way and all he had left were stacks upon stacks of other musicians' cherished work.

He wasn't too envious, glad actually; if nothing more, he could be involved in it at all. He met composers and musicians, mingled with those in the higher social class of France. At times, he'd return to his own creations, fix them or composed new one but they weren't up to par with his clients. His compositions weren't even up his _own_ standards. He could never publish, _how would it look if it wasn't up to par with the rest_? His first wife was often moody and impulsive; she left him when he didn't sell his business at its peak. He released her in a divorce and she married another. They never had children, which was funny to most people. His Caroline was in better health, though a few years older than his first. She too had dreams but her gender betrayed her. Now, she's about to become a mother, something she's denied plenty of times before. _She will focus on that_, he told himself. _The child will encompass her entire mind and time_, he desperately assured himself.

It's been an hour since he left, and Caroline is stuck trying to open the mirror for the time. She is hoping to slyly follow her husband into the depths of this supposed labyrinth he had immersed himself in for the past year. She's only nudged it open six inches. A knock on her door, her maid, and Caroline had hoped to be able to do this secretly. There's not much to Madeline, she obeys her mistress so no problem there. She opens the door, sneaks her in, and quickly shuts the door.

"What is happening, Mrs. Douglas?" Caroline shushes her,

"Do not speak. Open that up." Madeline turns to mirror,

"Oh, but Mr. Douglas doesn't allow anyone into the cellars."

"Never mind what he says, do as you are told." Madeline hesitantly pulls it open a few more inches with a hard tug. She sighs and looks at her mistress,

"You shouldn't go down there in your condition. Any lifting of your arms above your head could result in killing the baby, that's what I've always heard."

"Is that the brilliant wisdom that guides pregnancies to you people? Your little sayings that have absolutely no scientific basis? Maybe if you read, you would know better. Open the mirror and keep your mouth shut." Madeline nodded, could not speak and did as told. Something about this made her feel like it was wrong and it would lead to all sorts of trouble. If anything were to happen Miss Caroline she would never forgive herself but only for the sake of innocent's life. She couldn't care less if Caroline alone drowned in a river.

Mr. Douglas finally arrives, deep into the cellars, and finds the door open and room empty. _He's wandering again_, he worries. Soon enough, there would be a confrontation. It's only a matter of time. His room is crowded with a table and books, piles all over the floor. Clothes and bowls filled the tabletop. Stacks of paper and pencils on his bed for he needed to relearn everything again, including writing. It worries him, there being newspapers all over the place. Far more than what he brought him, he had to check every single page of one to make sure no unwanted information would reach his patient.

"Charles, you've brought me nothing this time?" The disfigured man walked in, his voice low since his vocal chords are still injured. The caretaker shakes his head,

"Caroline watches me too closely."

"Bring her down here then, let her curiosity be filled and she'll be gone once more." Charles sees a book and pencil in his hand.

"Did you find a better source of light?"

"I'm trying to figure out how to draw the light in, make small pathways into this room. I'll need some mirrors. At least during the day, I won't wander off as much."

"Yes, I'll bring you some pieces of mirror then." He didn't want to say more.

"I've been wandering the trap doors now, as you know. I've seen your Caroline, you never told me she was expecting. No wonder you come less and less as time goes by. Will one day you remain above always?" His voice as soft as child's but Charles knew where this was going.

"You can't leave, you know that."

"I don't accept that. I'm getting better. And you're telling me more. Soon, you will have no say in the matter at all."

"I told you, I saved you from an explosion! I got hurt myself, couldn't possibly know you were alive down here for so long by yourself."

"I have gone out at night, the tunnels that lead to the outside, I've passed through."

"And what happened? You were almost killed again, yes?"

"Yes." He barely said.

"You're a criminal. You're responsible for many deaths. Even if you don't find drunkards, if you find anyone who will believe your story. . .the police would still arrest you. You will be executed; plenty people around here had a family dead by the fire."

"I can always go leave for good. Go somewhere else soon enough. Have you heard anything about me?"

"_You_ don't know anything about you. How am I supposed to decipher anything from your past? No one knew how the fire started or why. I told you, I saw _you_ drop the acid into the fire. After the explosion, I was fleeing for my life and saw you there. You wouldn't let go of my leg."

"I forced you to rescue me, and you left me here, underground and in the dark."

"I left you to die in peace. I couldn't have known you would live. The doctor that tended you…he couldn't believe you lived through this."

"I want to leave."

"You cannot support yourself. When you get better, you can work for me here. I have many workers, many of them immigrants, you'll be able to work amongst them. They won't ask questions."

"How long will I have to wait now?" Charles keeps giving him different dates.

"When you are better. You needed four months just to speak and eat properly. When you are healed—"

"MY FACE WILL NOT HEAL!"

"I didn't say your fac—"

"My face is like this now! This will not change!"

He's been screaming lately. After so much grunting and wheezing, Charles welcomes it.

"You don't know where to go. You know no one and there is no way you would be able to live out and about- quietly. Eventually the police will find you, and will know you were the arsonist. Your injuries, there could be no other explanations. You would be guilty as soon as you're found." His voice low but steady. He knows he has him again under his control, he sighs,

"When I'm better, will you let me live above ground? Amongst you? I'll be silent, bother no one."

"Of course you can. One day." Charles' hand on his shoulder. Charles holds a pocket watch for him, He reluctantly accepts it. He admires the gold; it was the most thing down here in the cold labyrinth. He opens the back, the inner workings were beautiful and graceful. _Who knew such grace and grandeur could exist in such a thing so small. Are all things so much more beneath the surface?_

"Was this in your family, Charles?" He stars at the watch for a few seconds, as if hypnotized by it. Charles was lost in some sad memory, he could tell, with a tinge of regret in his eyes.

"No, no. There are few things of value here in the dark. A small room, miles away, had been keeping some jewels, musical instruments, and some small pieces of furniture. Can you imagine, I think past owners had been keeping their things here. Ridiculous, isn't it? Would you like any of it?"

"No need, getting better everyday. Shouldn't need anything else. This won't be home." He chirped. Charles' blank face hid his desperate eyes, his old age becoming more apparent as time goes by. _What else ages a man?_ He asked himself and wondered if Charles was sick.

"No musical instruments, to keep yourself entertained?" Charles' voice low now as if forced to ask. Confused, he never thought of music,

"Well, I suppose a flute or something might be good for me. Pass the time. Did you find one?" Charles nodded and laughed a little harder than necessary. Glad he didn't ask for a violin or piano. He retrieves the flute and leaves the caverns to return to his wife.

While Charles was gone, he was searching the tunnels for some treasures to sell off later, when he was able to go above. The caretaker didn't mind, there wasn't much he could do that would prompt Charles to bring in outsiders. And he doesn't know why.

Caroline hates the tunnels. She immediately realizes this was a bad idea but was determined to take a quick peek around. See what Charles has been up to but quickly got lost. Walked through a long tunnel, went down a lot of stairs, took a couple of turns in two different tunnels. The cellars were cold and wet, she eventually found a lake inside. An actual lake. And saw some boats but she didn't take them. Didn't want to go too far, she eventually saw some trapdoors and they weren't so difficult for her to pass through. Squeaks every now and then, rats but they quickly passed. Not one touched her. By the time she realizes she wanted to go back, she was lost.

The tunnels weren't that dark when she walked in. There always seemed some kind of light around, she could see easily and wasn't afraid. She found three torches along the way, mostly near the start. She had taken one with her. But it was out. It was dark, now. Almost pitch black. The cold was finally being felt, and her stubbornness was chipping away. Caroline didn't care what her husband was doing down here, but it's been a long time now. Or had it? She was confused. And scared. She could hear her breathing in echoes, tears roll down her face, and she starts to cry. After a few minutes, she calls out for Charles. He must be coming soon, must have known for quite a while now she was down here. _He'll be here soon, soon enough I'll be in front a fire, and in my bed, _she assured herself.

Cries in the dark now being accompanied by footsteps, Caroline's soft voice cracks,

"Charles? Charles?" A hand grabs her and she gasps. The hand got a stronger hold of her forearm and pulls her away. Caroline doesn't react for a few seconds, she then screams,

"Charles! No! Hel-" This stranger pulls harder for a few feet, and she pulls away. She stumbles after a few steps, and he grabs her again. She screams and cries, her fists punching his face but he quickly had a hold of her hands.

"Please, please don't hurt me. I'm with child!" These words made him stop and she couldn't see now but there was a pause. As if he could easily see in the dark and was looking at her to verify. He let go of one hand, but held the wrist firm. His voice was surprisingly soft,

"I'm not going to hurt you. You're not suppose to be here. I'm leading you out." His voice made her stop a minute, Caroline freezes in panic. She let him take her.

"This way-"

"I came from over there…I think. Yes, that way-"

"We're going through these, it's much faster." They were soon back again at the lake and took a boat. It was lighter around here, she could see his silhouette. He was tall but his posture was off. A thought wouldn't stop picking at her. She ignores it. After several minutes,

"Am I almost up?"

"Just about." He says. They reach the tunnels and he helps her out of the boat. He leads her through in what seemed like a never-ending passageway, at least it seems that way when you're being led by a stranger, and they stop short from the stairs that go straight up. She would be back after them and one long tunnel. It would be easy from here. She walks into the light, a torch left by the stairs. There were three before. She turned back to her guide, torch in hand and moved closer to the figure in the dark.

"Don't!" He warned. She stares into the darkness and needs to know.

"Who are you? What are you doing down here? Does my husband know of you?" Silence in the dark. "Please." She asks again. The figure takes a few steps toward her, towards the light. Caroline begins to see…something. _A face. Is he wearing a mask_? She stares at his face without seeing much, she can't make sense of it. And then, the horror. The realization. He stops walking as her eyes widen, her mouth gaping open, and breathing becoming out of control. She's loud, and she's crying so hard, the echoes making clear of her fear. Hand over mouth, tears rolling down and she shakes her head.

"No! No, no, no." She runs up the stairs, almost choking on her tears and the light disappears into the stairs above. Her guide remains, silent and still, waiting. Her cries now entwining with this labyrinth, the echoes trickling down to his damaged ears. His heart sinking. Eventually, there's a loud scream, a gasp, and then,

"Charles! Charles! There's, there's! In the dark! There's. . .!" Her breathing out of control, her screams quick, and he worried she might have fallen on her way up. But she kept moving, wouldn't dare stop. It would have been worse if he tried to help her. She was with Charles now. Everything would be fine now.

Charles held Caroline in his arms, he knew she was safe but was shaking. And as soon as he got a hold of her, she fought him. She punched a couple times, pushed him away but then fell into his arms. _Poor thing, frightened and confused_, he thought. She was angry and in shock. They walked slowly now that they were together; her body was aching and needed to stop every few feet. Sitting in the dark, Charles tries to calm his wife but she ignores him. They keep moving on until they reach the room. Caroline collapses on the floor. Charles brings her some water and blankets,

"Poor thing, my darling! What on Earth made you think you could go down there?" He is angry, she is silent and caught in a thought. She wasn't blinking, tears filled her eyes but her voice was deep. And hoarse.

"That man down there. . ." Charles was afraid of this but he assured her,

"It's some lunatic I can't get rid of! He didn't hurt you, did he?" Caroline doesn't answer but Charles knows he didn't. He wouldn't. His voice quick now, trying to fill the silence, trying to stop her thoughts.

"He's been down there only recently. Must be some drunkard. I, I haven't figured out how he got in there. There are some tunnels that lead out but…it's very difficult to get in. Not sure, not sure how he did it. It's-"

"That man." Caroline said. Two words. Two words and that was it. She knew.

"It's Erik, isn't it? What is he doing down there?" Her voice now whispering,

"What is he down there, Charles?" Her husband silent, looking away.

"At least lie to me, Charles. Just like you've been lying to me this whole time. Lie to me now, love, tell me you have nothing to do with it. Lie now, it's easy for you, isn't it?" She forces him to look her in the eyes, his own full of tears. Defeat. He was frozen in shame, stuck thinking about that night. The explosion, the fire, his solution to all of it…

"What are you doing with him? Torturing him? Are you going to kill him?" Her words struck a nerve,

"He was supposed to die. He should've. There's no way."

"Everyone thinks he's dead." Is all Caroline could say. She was almost sure her husband was going to commit murder and is lost in anger.

"The burns, Charles. The fire. Put your own business in flames."

"No, _he_ did. Jesus, Carol, he did it!"

"If he did, he'd be in jail now. What's he keeping? What does he know you don't want anyone else to know?" Charles flinches.

"Nothing, I thought…he was going to die. I knew he'd be put away. I thought he would die in peace."

"In the ground? In the dark? Charles, you were out of it yourself soon after. Passing out for days after the explosion for two or three months."

"I thought he would die quickly. It was for the best." After a few minutes of pacing around, Caroline was decided.

"Get him out of there, Charles. End this. Whatever it is. Don't kill him." Charles collapses on the ground, head in his hands, shaking away,

"No, no! He's staying there, he'll die soon. Yes, he'll die soon."

"He's healing Charles. A part of his face…looks like his old self. He's disfigured, he's injured, he needs help. Get him out." Charles shakes his head.

"That isn't an option."

"Get him out." Caroline demands firmly, her husband snaps,

"He will stay down there, you remain here! _You_ will do as _you're_ told! What makes you think you have any option, any say in the matter?!" He grabs her arm aggressively, she pulls away,

"I don't treat you half as bad as most men treat their wives. You will do as I say." Caroline has never seen this side of Charles before. He's never treated her badly and she knew she was lucky to find him.

"You have no rights. If I choose I can make life very difficult for you, love. Do not betray." He is sure of himself now; he goes back into the cellars and Caroline remains there. Afraid of what's to come, she locks her bedroom door in case Madeline tries to come in. Just in case…Charles brings him back dead. Caroline never prays and chose not to start now. She sits, waits, does nothing…just as she is told.

Charles is quick, angry and needs to end this finally. Erik could hear him coming, and wonders why the rush. He didn't hurt Caroline. _What is wrong?_ He wonders. His heart beats quicken, _something is wrong_. He waits outside his door, Charles arrives on the boat and pushes Erik back into his room. Erik hits the floor, and moves back, confused. Charles was old and tired, his face red but fists ready. He punches Erik twice and kicks him, Erik pushes back. Anger was gushing out of Charles, tempting Erik to fight him. But Erik fought to hold Charles down, finally he got on top of him.

"What are you doing?! What the devil's in you?! What is it?!" Erik screaming as blood streams down his face, Charles could finally see clearly what he created. And in the realization, and guilt, he cries not knowing what else to do. Erik backs away, standing, ready; and watched his savior crying, bleeding, collapsed on the floor. He waits as Charles gets his breathing, and actions, under control. In this moment of confusion, and disorder, Charles searches for an answer since this one would not work. His age deters him from following through, his body wasn't as strong. Just a few years younger and Erik would be dead easily. Charles figures it out.

"My wife. You found her." Is all he says. Erik's heart pounding faster now, he could her crying and screaming. She had fallen once or twice as she made her way back up alone. _It had been an hour or so, what could have happened so quickly? And so certain that Charles does this now_, he panics. _She fell…she fell._

"Is she all right? Safe…the baby?" He asks quickly, knowing that must have been it. Charles stares at him, he must look like a lunatic out of mourning.

"A doctor is with her. She's bleeding out. What have you done, Erik?"

"I don't know, Charles! I led her back safely. I heard her fall once she was upstairs by herself. She moved quickly though and kept moving. I couldn't help her, Charles, she was terrified of me."

"My child is dead, Erik. _You_ killed my child." Charles let out. Erik is motionless,

"No, no, can't be." Charles nods, confirming it. Erik falls to the floor, Charles on his feet again and towering over him now.

"I won't be back for a while now."

"Please, please don't leave me. Charles, I can't survive on my own. Forgive…forgive me." Erik cries, he's choking for air out of mourning…out of guilt. Charles makes his way back but stops. His voice deep and hoarse now,

"Do you see what you do, now? Can you see your curse is much more than your disfigurement?" Erik stares at the dark wall, thinking about those words and things were beginning to make sense. _That must be it_, he thought. He realizes. It was a while before Charles would leave, he cemented that idea into Erik's mind and Erik obeyed. He remained and would remain there. After several weeks, it became clear to Erik he could never live amongst others. The labyrinth, the darkness and isolation here makes the mind soft. Makes it bend easily by anyone who bothers to make it so. Charles made sure Erik fully understood he killed his child and ruined his wife, who was miserable. Erik believed everything and hibernated in the cellars. He gave up on hope. Caroline never dared to question Charles. No one knew how far Charles could go to keep things secret, or for how long.

Finally, _years_ down the road things would change. Erik would one day wake up and realize what has happened. But it wouldn't be until years after _that_ he would one day rise again into the Opera House itself.


	5. Chapter 5

Monsieur Debienne and Poligny stand before a crowd, eyes glistening and mouths spread like it was an achievement others couldn't do. Their crows' feet deep and have a quartet of long wrinkles across their foreheads, which no longer fade after their expressions stop. Their hair both grey and the roots white, they were finally in the last long stretch of their lives and they couldn't be happier leaving what had been their home for the past thirteen years.

They agree to sell the opera house, split their money, and never hear of one another again. Unless, of course. . .a problem arises. A note appearing, hand delivered, after the hundreds of miles of running away. Or the damn thing being there already and they discover it upon arrival. They would split and neither told the other where they were going. Monsieur Poligny's wife nor children knew where they were moving. _It will be a splendid surprise, too wonderful to say. . .it's grandeur must be seen_, he assures them. In reality, the surprise was more of a precaution. Debienne, a bitter bachelor, refused to pick the location of retirement. _We must be giving our secrets away subconsciously, yes that is it_, he would tell himself. If one were a talented observer, one could see it, it's not supernatural. Just logic. That is how he knows things; he is not a clairvoyant nor, as the _thing_ bragged being, omniscient. No, the beast was just too clever. In order to hide forever he would choose where to go at the train station, and randomly get off on the wrong stop and pick again and again. _I will not be found_, he was sure. But still. . .in case a scab refused to heal, the long-time partners and one-time friends would be able to contact each other just in case. And they wait, something may go wrong tonight, it being their farewell and all. _Two old rich men finally making enough money that they could agree to stop and move on_, the thoughts amongst members of the corps de ballet. But no one knew the problems these men had faced, their dilemma and how their corrupt hearts tried to wish it all away. Their penance lasted their entire stay at the opera house.

One knew. A second had her own little guesses now and then, little delicate theories which were easily torn down with _just_ the right question. Madame Giry and her daughter Meg stand against the wall and watch somberly. This is not a happy occasion for her but her daughter keeps wondering who the next owners will be. Who should be is an entirely different question that little Meg Giry knew the answer to whole-heartedly, her mother. Madame Giry, a middle-aged woman dressed in black, had been waiting for their retirement in order to step in. Yet she wouldn't be able to do so legally, her gender betrays her once again, and she would have to settle for her place to be upheld by another. They couldn't make a fuss about this, women had few options and it could cause too much attention, and ridicule. All this worrying, none of it hers, but she had to step back. _Next time_, she was told, _they were only a few years off_. Their plans to him were desires, he could live without it but it was a necessity to her. She needed to be in charge the opera house, anyone who lived in, cared, and bled for this palace as she had would feel the same. She could not live too long with her hands tied behind her back, fighting for everything and deciding nothing. But if they only knew that this was truly a partnership, ambition is not exclusive to the man hiding in the dark.

She stands idly by as the new owners wave and smile at the announcement and exchange handshakes with their predecessors. A couple of the older dancers met their eyes and turned away, shyly smiling; these will be one of the last few wealthy men these women are able to snag for courtship. Marriage or affair, whichever benefits more.

Giry looks around and everyone seems happy. Meg asks to join the younger girls, who seemed to be gossiping and her mother allows her. She knew her daughter was safe as long as she was inside the opera house. Other girls no, not at all. Her daughter, yes, for she has a protector just as she herself has. But there seems to be someone else around, unknown to Giry, inspiring fear. There has been something strange going on, a glitch in the last couple years when it comes to the missing people. Normally the girls either ran off on their own, or with some boy. But lately, they just went out and never returned. Left everything behind. Those girls. . .that was an issue of society, of the times nowadays, but the last few girls went missing outside the opera house technically but barely. Unexplained disappearances were usually not a tragedy. It was almost always those who were malicious in nature or cruel. And it was almost always men. Yes, those last few years, things had become less predictable. Neither Giry nor her partner could figure it out. Meg would not be allowed outdoors without a guardian, under any circumstances. She relaxes though for she warned Meg of the dangers outside; and even though little Meg worried of the dangers inside the opera house, her mother let her in on the secret. From then on, Meg had no fear when inside the enormity of the opera house.

"To my great teachers, who are practically father figures to me ; I am a bit sad to say goodbye…" said a middle aged woman with small delicate hands but long nails as she places her papers down at the table. She sighs and tries again,

"To two great men, my biggest supporters and, no, oh no,no,no. These bastards didn't even want me in the first place." She looks in the mirror, as she alone, rehearses her farewell speech. Her olive skin peppered with goldish powder. Her eyes big and brown, lined in black only emphasize all that the old owners hated about her. Her thick eyebrows frame her face, an enormous wig is on as well as the tightest dress she had, draped over her hour glass figure. At least she brought men into the opera house, the old owners were grateful. Sorelli had to change her name since Italian was more respectable. At least she could say it in her native tongue. Her parents had been grateful for that.

A rush of footsteps outside her door, gasps and squeals break in, a group of chorus girls invade Sorelli's room.

"It's out there! Right outside!" One of the elder girls manages to say. Sorelli asks the obvious question, fully knowing the response. It's been weeks since the last sighting. _Rumored_ sightings some of the men would say. The girls shaking and holding their glances between Sorelli and the door.

"The opera ghost! It's face-hollow eyes. . ." The same girl replies, looking to Sorelli for guidance. The nearing middle-age singer had a weakness for superstitions, she was deeply paranoid but tried not to let anyone realize it. She takes a sip from a glass of wine near her, her hands need to hold something to stop the shaking and she chuckles. Her usual high-pitched voice was gone and left behind a somber tone,

"This again? You girls know better than to listen to the rumo-"

"We saw it with our own eyes!-" Sorelli shakes her head, the girls follow her.

"It wears a dark cape-"

"A hat hides half his face!" Sorelli moves back and pretends to chuckle but the girls don't let her get a word in.

"It moved swiftly towards us, we ran in the opposite direction. . .but it appeared before us ."All the girls started speaking at once, there was no swaying them. Sorelli walks backward, thinking the thing might come out again tonight, until she hit a wall. Their eyes large, their hands in the air describing his appearance and movement, and little Meg Giry near the door watching the girls panic. Young Meg was frightened, of course, but more about what they were saying than what they had just run from. Sorelli asks her,

"Giry! You saw this as well? The thing. Moving around and everything?" Her voice cracks towards the end. Her straight face weighed down by the fear, wrinkles and her scared eyes were bleeding through her confidence. Giry looks at her feet and back at the girls, shaking her head,

"We're not supposed to talk about it. We ran, we are safe now. No need to dwell on it." She stands against the door,

"I don't hear anything. Maybe it's gone now. And we won't be haunted for a while now." Meg reasoned and the girls shake their heads,

"Don't open the door Meg!"

"You'll let it in!"

"The Opera Ghost will not have mercy; it looks for a soul to take!" The girls were panicking and Sorelli scoffs,

"Well if it is behind the door, I shall make it fall!" She pulls out a dagger from her dresser, hands shaking as she nears the door. The girls plead to just wait and let it pass. Meg shakes her head,

"Don't! Mother says not to approach the ghost!"

"This is foolish, Ana." Madame Giry says calmly, dark eyes staring, as Sorelli opens the door. Giry catches Sorelli's wrist and pushes back as she was almost stabbed. Giry has gotten used to everyone being played with by their paranoia. Being quiet and observant, she needed to have quick reflexes as she often "accidently" snuck up on people. Sorelli quickly closes the door and shakes it off but her hand still tense with a knife.

"A dagger? You must have heard. Strange. . .his body wasn't discovered too long ago."

"A body?!" Sorelli asked, the girls speechless, Meg listens and holds onto her mother as she explains,

"Joseph Buquet. His neck snapped-"

"Buquet..." Sorelli's voice slow and quiet. Madame Giry strokes her daughter's hair once, looking at her frightened face, and realizes with the awkward pause Sorelli was confused.

"The chief scene shifter. Not too much of a pity actually. . .he had a tendency to wander around the girls' quarters, playfully frightening the young girls. . .frightened me most of all."

"The scene shifter. Shame. Good worker." Sorelli returns to her reflection, her skin now pale,

"Has everyone been dismissed. The party?" Giry straightened Meg's hair, shakes her head,

"No…the 'guests of honor'," Her voice heightened with mention of the men, the girls giggled, "must be kept in the dark for as long as possible. No one wants to ruin the farewell. Not their problem anyway. Feel a bit pity for the new owners. Have you met them? They're still unaware of the going-ons in this opera house."

"Have not met them actually. Look forward to of course." Sorelli approaches Giry with her hand up and out, showing her the door. The girls calm now and walk out. Meg remains at her mother's side, Giry's icy stare at Sorelli made her look away and she looks at her clothing as if making sure she was ready.

"What will you say when the new owners ask about the strange incidents they will be seeing in the coming days?"

"What makes you think any more of this nonsense will continue?" Sorelli snaps back.

"Well, new owners must be shown how things are here. And if they are uncooperative, there is no doubt in my mind the ghost will find a way to persuade them."

"A part of me always thought one of them was playing a trick on the other. . .getting more money out of the partnership."

"The owners leave but the ghost remains. It is within this palace he belongs."

"And you've known this a long time now, haven't you?" Sorelli bitterly, weakly accused. She is no threat at all and Giry smiles,

"Once you've been here as I long as I have, it will be clear to you too." Meg looks at the large mirror on the wall for a minute; it gives her the chills, and she joins her friends. Giry follows, her voice trailing behind,

"I'm looking forward to your speech." Sorelli smiles out of courtesy but once she gets the chance, she slams the door.


End file.
